Free Bay of Secrets by Rosanna Ley Page B

Enrique Marin.
    ‘Do not darken this door again,’ he had said to his son, black eyes glowering. ‘Do not dare to come back.’ Not much room for negotiation there. And anyway, Andrés had too much pride. Every time he thought of the island and his family, he reminded himself of those words. He would never go back to a place where he was so hated. And yet he’d had to do it, hadn’t he? How could he not?
    Andrés spoke to his mother regularly though. When Enrique was out of the way, she would phone him – two rings and then four – and he would call her back. They didn’t want to risk Andrés’s father seeing the phone bills and guessing that they were still in touch. Andrés told her details of his life, snippets about his clients – Mrs Emily Jones (bedroom and living-room ceilings apricot-white) who curled the coat of her black poodle, dressed it up and took it for afternoon walks along the promenade. Old Ian Hangleton (outside of the house in magnolia and a few broken slates) who peered out into the street through net curtains to catch up with the latest gossip and kept his money under the floorboards in his bedroom with a loaded gun by his bedside.
Just in case
 … Anything that he thought might make his mother smile. He imagined them – Mama and Izabella – sitting with a pot ofcoffee between them when the old man was out of the way. His mother bringing Izabella up to date on his news, though he called his sister too from time to time and she wrote him occasional long letters in return. She was always careful though, he could always sense her holding back. As if she couldn’t risk their father’s anger. As if she couldn’t allow herself to communicate with Andrés more fully. Until he’d been accepted once more into the family fold.
    He also told his mother about the last house he’d done up and how he had transformed it out of all recognition before he sold it on.
It made me feel good
 … At least something did. Andrés had benefited from rising house prices in the late nineties. He had bought a rundown two-up two-down for next to nothing – been given the tip-off by one of his clients, actually. He was far from being a property dealer, but he hadn’t done too badly.
    And he’d even told her about this new place he had spotted by the sea at Pride Bay. He touched his jacket pocket to check that the auction brochure was still tucked in there. It had reached out to him, this place, and he’d decided to bid for it. Why not? It had glorious views.
    ‘It sounds magnificent, my son,’ she had said. Pride in her voice.
    He’d smiled, thinking of the rundown cottage. Hardly magnificent. But maybe one day … He had been looking for a new project. And the cottage reminded him somehow of home.
    ‘How is everything, Mama?’ he had asked her. ‘
Qué tal?
’
    He heard her pause and understood it. ‘Ah,’ he said.
    ‘I am well enough, my son,’ she said. ‘But nothing has changed.’
    He knew she would never cross him. She was one of the old school. It was different for Andrés. He was the younger generation and maybe he had been born a rebel; he would question – he had to question – the way things were.
    ‘And Izabella?’ he asked, thinking of his sweet-faced sister. She would never cross him either. Out of love or out of fear, he wasn’t sure.
    ‘Well,’ said his mother. ‘Though she still waits for a child.’
    Poor Izabella. She had been married now for ten years. It must be hard for her. It was the
Majorero
way – family, children. Not so for Andrés. But Andrés had always felt different from his family; never felt that he truly belonged. Perhaps because his father had never allowed him to belong.
    Now, the sun poked out its early evening face and Andrés shielded his eyes, watching the cliffs change colour from treacly gingerbread to pale sugar-gold. He took a final sip of his coffee, even though it was cold. He had it strong and black – a double shot of